


HP Character Ficlets

by anguis_1



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Character Study, F/M, Fat Character, Ficlet, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-10
Updated: 2012-08-12
Packaged: 2017-11-11 20:00:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 2,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/482352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anguis_1/pseuds/anguis_1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Exploring a few of the ancillary characters . . .<br/>1 - Polyjuice Portrait - "Vincent Crabbe hated little girls. More to the point, he hated being one."<br/>2 - I Will Not Play the Martyr - Millicent is not your average woman.<br/>3 - Keep It Simple, Stupid - VC/MB drabble<br/>4 - BBW (Big Beautiful Witch) - Vince has never claimed to be the brightest light in the chandelier, but once he gets an idea in his mind, he hangs onto it like a hippogriff with a nice, juicy ferret. Unfortunately, he’s always had difficulty expressing himself.<br/>5 - Behind Closed, Locked, and Soundproofed Doors - "Arthur Weasley was rarely seen kissing his wife." Not all romances are conducted in front of the camera.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Polyjuice Portrait

Vincent Crabbe hated little girls. More to the point, he hated being one. Mind you, the girl bits were a bit of an interesting novelty in the beginning (although he nearly went spare the first time his cock tucked up between his legs and retreated into his body like a rolled-up sock), but little girl bits were, well, _little_ , and anyway, just thinking about them made him feel vaguely dirty in a queasy, unpleasant way.  
  
More than anything, though, he hated losing his size. He wasn't particularly attached to his face or his hair, but his size made him who he was. When he could haul a terrified firstie in the air with one massive hand, when he could clear most any seat he wanted by towering menacingly over its cowering occupant, when his wide shoulders and proud paunch were straining the seams of his schooolrobes--then he knew that he was Vincent Crabbe. He seemed to lose himself every time he shrank into another of Draco's seemingly endless supply of delicate waifs.  
  
He wouldn't have minded it nearly as much (in fact, he might've volunteered enthusiastically) if he could have become Millicent Bulstrode. She was only a few inches shorter than he and perhaps a trifle wider. Like him and Greg, she had substance and solidity. (She also had the biggest tits in the school, and he could have taken advantage of the usually deserted corridor to give them a proper inspection, but that would've been only a fringe benefit.) Unfortunately, Draco had swiftly quashed that suggestion with his ruthless logic. Vincent had argued that as Millicent he could rough up anyone nosing around without causing suspicion, but Draco had spouted some babble about the necessity of limiting potential interactions and declared the subject closed with such grim finality that Vincent didn't have the courage to protest. One didn't challenge Draco these days, even if he was acting like Barnabas the Barmy in the midst of his ill-fated preparations for _Troll Lake_.  
  
And so, Vincent continued following Draco's orders, choking down goblets of sludgy Polyjuice Potion and losing himself as the flesh melted off his bones.  



	2. I Will Not Play the Martyr

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Millicent is not your average woman.  
>  _Written for Violet’s Quill’s Voices and Vaginas of HP Women Challenge._

I will not play the martyr. There are many things I hate, but one of the worst is whining. Life’s dealt me a tough hand, yeah, but so what? I’d rather kiss Granger than start sniveling about my lot in life.  
  
Another thing that rivals whining is this load of rubbish they try to pass off as politeness and good manners. I see no reason to be anything but blunt--we'd save a lot of time and effort if people would just say what they mean and have done with it. Besides, I’ve found that a little bluntness goes a long way to discouraging all the nattering bints who want to unload their petty complaints of spotty noses, demanding parents, and ungrateful boys.  
  
So, you started having your period? You’re bleeding and cramping and feeling like you’re going to _die_? Good for you--now you’re just like half the world. If you don’t shut your gob about it, I’ll give you a bloody nose to match.  
  
You think you’re fat? Hah, you don’t know what fat is! _I’m_ fat--not ‘big-boned’ or statuesque or well-endowed or any of those other silly euphemisms you use to sidestep a simple fact. You want me to say it again? I’m fat! And, you know what? I don’t mind a bit. If someone doesn’t like it, that’s just their tough luck, ‘cause it’s _my_ body, and _I_ like it just fine.  
  
You think you’re ugly and no one likes you? Ah, now you’re getting somewhere! You’re uglier than a hippogriff’s arse, and no one likes you because you’re always whinging about everything. Have some backbone and take a little pride in yourself. If that pansy you call a boyfriend constantly harasses you about the size of your waist or the time you spend away from him or whatever nonsense, then tell him to get lost. Full stop, no waffling.  
  
I will not play the martyr, and I’m sure as hell not going to sit around listening to you try to be one.


	3. Keep It Simple, Stupid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vincent Crabbe/Millicent Bulstrode drabble.  
>  _Written for The Great Harry Potter Drabble Challenge._

In a shy, awkward, entirely unnecessary gesture that would most likely earn him a swift knee to his tender bits, he kissed her knuckles, smooth lips cooling the ragged scabs tightening across her skin. Abruptly, she snatched her hands away. He flinched a hairsbreadth, but the expected blow never came. Instead, she hooked her injured hands behind his neck and kissed him hard. The tang of blood still oozed from her split lip, her breasts crushed into his chest in a rather intriguing way, and he thought that maybe--just maybe--he could see what all the fuss was about.


	4. BBW (Big Beautiful Witch)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vince has never claimed to be the brightest light in the chandelier, but once he gets an idea in his mind, he hangs onto it like a hippogriff with a nice, juicy ferret. Unfortunately, he’s always had difficulty expressing himself.

Like many obsessions, it all began in the Slytherin common room. Because of an unfortunate misunderstanding with Professor Flitwick over an admittedly injudicious joke involving a goblin, a giantess, and a stepladder, Greg had spent most of the day dusting chains and oiling manacles for Filch. He had even missed supper, leaving Vince to brave the chaos of the meal alone. Upon returning to the common room, he was greeted by the welcome sight of Greg’s familiar broad back silhouetted against the fire. In a moment of exuberance at seeing his friend after their long separation, Vince snuck up behind him and latched on with a crushing bear hug. If he had been paying more attention, perhaps he would have noticed that he was clutching something considerably more interesting than Greg’s barrel chest, but there was no time for this to register. Greg wheeled around. Only--and this was where it became downright confusing--it wasn't Greg. Instead, Vince found himself nose to forehead with a girl with a wet and angry face. He hadn't thought it was raining, although those details tended to easily escape him, so he shrugged it off without much thought.  
  
"Look, just because I'm fat doesn't mean I’m easy," she snapped. Vince thought that was a rather odd greeting, but before he could begin to ponder this mystery, she punched him in the gut, doubling him over and making him sorely regret those last four helpings of sticky toffee pudding.  
  
As he stumbled to a chair, trying desperately to contain the nauseous undulations in his stomach, Draco stalked past and gave him a shove and some advice. “If you’re going to paw the fat tart, don’t do it in front of me. I’d rather not be sick.”  
  
Before that evening, Vince had been only vaguely aware of a largish, somewhat indistinct presence attached to "Bulstrode, Millicent". He certainly hadn't thought of her as a _girl_ , and he most definitely had never entertained carnal thoughts in her direction. Now he noticed little else. It was as though someone had lit a candle in the deep, dark dungeons of his brain, and what had been murky suddenly resolved with a clarity that should have frightened him. As it was, he became too occupied with noticing things to care.  
  
He noticed the tantalizing curves of her bum swaying in front of his nose as they panted their way up the endless staircases to the Astronomy Tower. Back and forth, back and forth--her weight shifted so mesmerizingly that his sight darkened and blurred (although it might have had something to do with the fact that he had forgotten to breathe for nearly an entire flight of stairs). Suddenly, Vince found himself inexplicably anticipating their late night class.  
  
He noticed her plump thigh pressed up to his as they wedged themselves into a double desk constructed for a pair of less substantial students in Charms. He stared, she glared, and Slytherin lost five points for "disruptive behavior".  
  
He noticed the softness that pooled beneath her jaw when she dropped her chin and hunched her shoulders against the cold, autumn rain-tipped wind. He nearly asked her to The Three Broomsticks for a Butterbeer or three, but his courage failed, so he boxed the ears of a passing Hufflepuff instead. That, at least, earned him an approving glance from her direction. (It also earned him a stern reproof from Professor McGonagall and five more points from Slytherin. He thought it was well worth it, although Draco--who was becoming quite disgusted by Vince’s fixation--did not agree.)  
  
He noticed her quite amazing bosom when it knocked over a Philandering Fuchsia when she reached across the potting bench in Herbology. He ogled so intently, in fact, that the overturned plant fastened its fangs onto his thumb. Luckily, Greg remembered that such plants were particularly sensitive to being bashed repeatedly with heavy objects like clay flowerpots, so Vince escaped with only a few broken fingers. Inexplicably, Professor Sprout gave Greg detention with Filch for his efforts, but Vince knew that he owed his best friend another life debt.  
  
He noticed the dimple at her elbow uncovered by her sleeve when straining for a battered book in the library. He’d never really thought much about elbows before (or books, for that matter), but hers intrigued him.  
  
And, most of all, he noticed her belly--whether nestling into her lap at mealtimes or curving like the bow of a low-slung Viking ship as she ploughed resolutely through a gaggle of second years, it fascinated him. She propped large tomes on it, tucked her hands underneath it on particularly frigid days, and even caressed it luxuriously on a few occasions when she thought no one was looking. He wondered whether it would feel like a featherbed.  
  
Vince noticed so much that he began to do more than just notice. He began to fantasize. All sorts of scenarios drifted through his head. They distracted him terribly, in class, at mealtimes, in detention, on the weekends, in the common room, during Quidditch matches, in the corridors (even when he was doing that-which-shall-not-be-named for Draco), and especially when he was comfortably ensconced in his bed waiting for sleep to soothe his fevered imagination.  
  
Finally, he knew that he had to do something before he went mad.  
  
It was the first spring day a person could step outside without sinking ankle-deep in mud, and the students of Hogwarts were determined not to miss a moment of pale sunshine and face-scouring breezes. Millicent was reclining under a newly leafed tree. The robes that had been form-fitting at the beginning of the school year now strained at the seams, and she had taken advantage of her relative seclusion to loosen a few of its clasps.  
  
With Greg keeping an eye out for anyone who might interrupt--particularly Draco with his increasingly bizarre and unpleasant orders--Vince approached her cautiously. He had intended to woo her with his charm and challenge her to a friendly wrestling match. Instead, he caught his foot on a protruding root and sprawled across her. She awoke from her dozing with the wind knocked out of her and her arms already grappling with the heavy body pressing down on her. After a brief tussle, during which Millicent’s loosened clasps opened completely and Vince learned a couple of rather inventive swearwords, she conceded the bout in favour of preventing any further deepening of her dangerously plunging neckline.  
  
While pinning her wrists and snugly straddling the prodigious stomach that was indeed as soft and warm as a featherbed, he suddenly realised that his careful plan had never extended beyond this point. He wanted to tell her how beautiful she was and how much he adored her, but the words clotted in his throat, so he pressed his lips to hers. It was an inexpert kiss at its most charitable description. Nevertheless, when their lips met, Vince saw fireworks exploding and heard wedding bells pealing. Later, Greg would tell him that it was because Millicent had wrested a hand free and clobbered him over the head with a fallen branch, but Vince knew that it was true love.


	5. Behind Closed, Locked, and Soundproofed Doors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Arthur Weasley was rarely seen kissing his wife." Not all romances are conducted in front of the camera.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written between OotP and HBP.

Arthur Weasley was rarely seen kissing his wife.

Those of high breeding and high-arched eyebrows whispered out of the corners of their pasted-on smiles that, even if they couldn't fathom his unfortunate Muggle fetish, they _could_ understand the distaste he must feel for his dowdy, dumpy wife. They tsked haughtily and gossiped on about the terrible way she had let herself go after the third child, not that she'd ever had anything in the way of beauty or charm, mind you.

His colleagues at the Ministry murmured with small, sad smiles in sympathy and pity. They knew (who didn't?) that he had more than enough to worry about. With his surplus of children and scarcity of money, who could blame him for being too tired and too preoccupied for the exertions of intimacy? Besides, neither he nor Molly would win any prizes for looks.

Other, more intimate acquaintances smiled patronizingly and talked about a love that fit like a well-worn slipper and had transcended the base physicality of youthful lust. They spoke of his devotion to his family, his unflappable demeanour in the face of his fiery-tempered wife or their explosion-mad twin sons, and his fervent dedication to justice. And though it perched vulture-like upon their hearts, they didn't whisper a word about the strain of tension-tattered nerves and fatigue-stricken limbs that grew like thornbushes between them and their own lovers.

Arthur Weasley was rarely seen kissing his wife, and no one ever asked _him_ why. Too entangled in their webs of faux politeness and too comfortable with their own versions, his colleagues and friends, his enemies and acquaintances never bothered to enquire whether he fit in the neat little boxes they'd constructed for him.

Entirely oblivious to the drone of rumours and mutterings that babbled around him, Arthur Weasley was rarely seen kissing his wife. He worked hard and earned little, dreamed much and gossiped rarely, loved his family deeply and the Order only slightly less so. He had no time or inclination to notice idle speculations, so he continued living as he always had.

When all the excess was stripped away, Arthur Weasley was rarely seen kissing his wife because her lips tasted of raisins and cinnamon and desire. When he kissed her lips, he could feel his hands rising to curl and clench in her disheveled hair. If they did so, all was lost. With one hand buried in the red tangles, his other soon strayed down familiar slopes and curves to tease milktooth-scarred nipples through the knobbly knit of her mismatched jumper. When she began to moan and tilt her hips just so, nestling the warm, soft curve of her belly against his arousal, it was only a matter of minutes before a hodgepodge of robes and jumpers and knickers adorned the nearest furniture. At that point, a Muggle flying machine could crash outside the window and he wouldn't give it a second glance, lost as he was in the wonder of her ever-changing, ever-beautiful body.

Arthur Weasley was rarely seen kissing his wife because, despite society's considerably relaxed mores, it was still considered unseemly to publicly ravish one's own wife deeply and well.


End file.
